


Perspective

by teddybearparker



Category: 19th Century CE RPF
Genre: Angst, Child Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Sam Howe is a mess of a person but I really love him, this is the saddest thing I've ever written but also the thing I'm proudest of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 05:51:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11411565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teddybearparker/pseuds/teddybearparker
Summary: How does a man cope with loss when he never learned how?





	Perspective

_Perspective._

Thousands of fathers had lost sons the past few years, what was one more?

_Perspective._

His son had died in bed, and not out on some bloody field hundreds of miles away. He had died with his family by his side.

_Perspective._

He did not have to call out, screaming in pain, begging for his mother and father or God to save him. He died in his sleep, not even aware he would never wake up.

_Perspective._

Unlike thousands of young boys, he died in peace.

_Perspective._

He wasn’t even four years old.

_Perspective._

 

* * *

 

 

Sam Howe did all he could to try to keep it in perspective. To try to push past the pain and agony of losing a child and focus on the life the boy had lived. But what life was that? The boy never had the chance to make it to his fifth birthday. He never got to run around on his own. Never got to see a world beyond Boston. He never got to experience his first love, his first kiss. There would be no school for Sammy South Boston, grade school or university. He would never get to experience the bliss of a good mead, or the pain of a hangover, of the thrill of a mountain climb and the terror of a sail on the open sea. He would never know what his favorite food would be, or his favorite book. He would never discover his life’s passions and dreams. It was robbed from him in an instant. All that remained was the shadow of a life that could have been, and the empty space he left behind in the hearts of his parents.

Julia had cried her eyes out. She had done nothing but cry for weeks. Sammy was hers, and had always been all hers. When he died, a part of her died too. It was written in every line of her face and every word she spoke. For the first time in their marriage, Sam would have done anything to get the old Julia back. He just didn’t know how. He had always prided himself on having a solution to every problem. That was his job. He was the man of the house, and he could do anything.

But this was out of his depth. He knew how to love his children and he knew how to show it, but now his son was dead and he hadn’t the slightest idea of how to cope that fact. It was easier to bury that loss inside himself; to lock it away and never look back. When President Lincoln offered him a job working with contraband, with a special mission to Canada, he it took it without a second thought. Julia called him heartless for that. Maybe he was. Only a monster would leave his wife to grieve on her own.

Only a monster wouldn’t cry at the death of his own son.

* * *

 

Months passed, and he had found himself in Washington City with his formal report. Life had finally returned to normal, for the most part. If anything about his life could be considered normal. Charles, naturally, had invited him to stay at his apartments, and Sam, naturally, had said yes. Sammy was the elephant in the room, and Sam deflected every attempt Charles had made at broaching the subject. He knew it hurt Charles, not to confide in him. But how could he? He couldn’t even confide in Julia, and she was the mother of the boy he had lost. He couldn’t confide in anyone, really. If he did, he would break. A man like Sam Howe was never supposed to break. It was beaten into him since childhood, and reinforced daily by every experience in his life. He was hanging on a by a thread, but not even the love of his life could get through to him. No one could. The only thing worse than falling apart would be to fall apart in front of someone he loved. It wasn’t allowed. He wouldn’t allow it.

One night, Charles was gone later than usual, and Sam’s stomach churned uncomfortably. Another battle, most likely. Thousands more sons dead, thousands more fathers left to cope with that fact. He couldn’t say what sparked it, but the longer Charles was gone the more he turned within himself. Sammy never got to meet his Uncle Charles. That hit him harder than he expected. Sam never got the chance to see Charles hold Sammy in his arms and rock him gently, like he had for every other one of his children. Sammy never got to play catch with his brother Harry. Or pick strawberries with Romana. Or read Dickens with Flossy. Or put on an extravagant production with Maud, complete with thrown-together costumes and live music. A thousand more memories that never had the chance to become real. A thousand more memories that revealed a fault in the line, a crack in the façade. Before he even realized what was happening, the loss finally him in a way he had never allowed it to before.

Sam Howe finally started to cry. He cried for his son, and the life unfulfilled. He cried for Charles, and the life they should have had. He cried for Julia, for the pain she was enduring and for all the pain he had put her through. He cried for the friends he had lost, and agonies he had suffered. He cried for every slap and punch his father had given him, for every hug and kiss his mother had comforted him with. He cried for every moment he should have cried, and he cried for letting himself cry in the first place.

When Charles finally returned, he found Sam sitting on the couch, quietly looking over some papers for the Sanitary Commission. Charles smiled, and sat down next to him carefully. Sam leaned against him, not saying anything.

“I apologize for taking so long, Chev. Today has been quite a… Sam?” Charles paused, studying his face. “Your eyes are red… Were you crying?”

“…….. of course not, Charlie. Now tell me about your day.”


End file.
